"What was your mother like?"
"Vague," Mycroft said - vaguely.
"Also, smart," he elaborated. "She ran Statistics in the Service, before women were allowed to do such things. These days they encourage women with leadership qualities - whether or not they can enumerate, bless them. Mummy would have done the number crunching so much better but not the people skills. Too vague, you see. Where Sherlock gets it from," Mycroft concluded, missing the irony of his statement.
"And your father? I don't think that I have heard you mention him once in all these years."
"That would be because he was never there." Mycroft grimaced slightly. "Sorry, bad molar. Comes of having a sweet tooth as a child." Mycroft pulled a different but equally pained face. "And as an adult, if I'm honest."
Mycroft's questioner lowered the gun and Mycroft leant forward as if to grab it. The hours of captivity and questioning had taken their toll. He was aware of being sluggish, moving at a snail's pace.
"Ok, enough pleasantries. Let's get back to the nub of the matter."
Mycroft straightened. He'd need all his wits and ability to keep on top of this. It was made more difficult by having a bond with his captor. He had to keep reminding himself that she was not taking dictation anymore at his behest.